Madam Bonaparte's Home for Wayward Adolescents
by Minato's Moustache
Summary: After an accident, Rashel has been taken into a correctional facility where she'll find friendship, face fears, and grow to learn the real meaning of the words forbidden romance. That's if she can survive.
1. Chapter 1

**Name: **Madam Bonaparte's Home for Wayward Adolescents.

**Summary: **After an accident, Rashel has been taken into a correctional facility where she'll find friendship, face fears, and grow to learn the real meaning of the words forbidden romance. That's if she can survive.

**Notes: **No regrets.

**Warnings: **Narrative swears, over description of stuff that no one cares about. Fast plot progression. Ect.

**Happy half term! **

**A chapter a day, methinks. **

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><p>"There are a few things you should understand about this place, Ms Jordan," the thin woman said as she curled a hand out towards Rashel, "for one, it's all for themselves."<p>

Rashel took the hand and stepped from the cab. Her meagre belongings were dumped at her feet and the cab sped off into the inky black night with no short of a second glance. The place Rashel Jordan had been sent too was incredibly infamous. A place feared by the locals and known for miles around.

_Madam Bonaparte's Home for Wayward Adolescents. _

Yes, like the dictator.

The thin woman, otherwise known as Madam Bonaparte, spun around and began to walk towards the large mansion. Rashel looked around for a moment, before picking up her suitcase and following after. The garden to the mansion was neat and well kept, but still had the horrible feel of being dead of life. A lone tree sat off to the edge corner of the large walls, a makeshift swing hanging abandoned from one of it's branches. It was sad to see.

"Secondly, Ms Jordan, you are to call me Mistress or Miss at _all times._"

Rashel nodded, even if Bonaparte couldn't see her.

Bonaparte herself was a thin woman, I've already classed that. She was short, thin, and her left eyebrow always seemed to be raised in perpetual contempt. She wore a grey two piece the same shade as her hair, it collaborated nicely with her pale skin and watery blue eyes.

"Finally," the large wooden doors were twisted open in Bonaparte's thin fingers, opening up to reveal a large, monochrome hallway with a spindling staircase at the edge of it, "Do not associate with the males."

Rashel nodded, but Bonaparte spun around and snapped, "do you understand me, girl?"

"Y-yeah." Rashel stuttered, clutching her suitcase tightly.

Bonaparte smiled widely, "That's good. Now, run along to the dorms. First floor second door to the right. And that's a floor up from here, not this floor. We'll have to break your ridiculous American speech ways as soon as possible."

Rashel remained silent as Bonaparte ran her eyes up and down her frame quickly, "I think you'll do okay here, Ms Jordan. Dinner's at 6. As it's your first day you're not expected to work, but you must be up early tomorrow."

Then she was gone, and Rashel was left alone. Her suitcase held her pyjamas, a letter, a photograph and her lucky charms, all of which she was eager to hide.

She'd seen enough TV to know that all your stuff gets taken off you in these places.

* * *

><p>The steps of the old stairs creaked as she made her way up them, her gaze constantly trained on the strange small square landing at the top that could barely hold one person. On it were two doors. One said <em>first <em>and the other said _stairs._

The first one wouldn't fucking open for the life of it. She jammed her elbow against it, rattled the handle, and eventually threw herself against it as it groaned and creaked, whining and splintering. It abruptly shot open and slammed into the wall, the bang echoed throughout the large manor and Rashel froze in fear for a second before beginning to walk down the increasingly narrow hallway.

Door one, door two, door three- wait, she wanted door two. Rashel backtracked to the door that held the cracked brass plate that boldly exclaimed _TWO. _

Thankfully, it opened a lot more freely than the previous door, and the door silently swung open to reveal a spacious room crammed with beds. Rashel dragged her suitcase into the empty room and looked around. All the beds were occupied by bags or whatever besides the one in the very corner, next to the window.

She took her suitcase to it and put in on top of the bed, unclasping the locks and swinging it open. Running her hands over her possessions as she began to unpack them onto the bed, Rashel found herself beginning to silently cry.

It wasn't something she usually did, Rashel wasn't the type to cry. Ever. The situation warranted tears though.

Finally, at the bottom of her suitcase, was the warrant for her situation – a letter written by her Mom explaining to Bonaparte just _why _her daughter needed to be corrected.

Personally, Rashel didn't think she was all that wayward.

That's when she actually began to cry. She pushed the suitcase from the bed and crawled under the thick crackly sheets and allowed herself to sob into the pillow, hand curling around her keepsake. Her keepsake was a spoon – the first thing she's been able to grab before her mother dragged her from the house. She hoped it'd bring her luck.

And when I wake up in the morning, she thought to herself, when I open my eyes, I'll be at home and Mom will be making pancakes and Timmy will be bitching about the hockey match the night before trying to finish his maths homework whilst eating cheese on toast at the same time.

She cried until she could cry no more, trying to pretend she wasn't in some fucking horribly dated loony bin and there wasn't a draft and the springs weren't escaping from the mattress and jabbing into her thighs.

She cried until she was physically exhausted, and then at the first signs of sleep she simply allows it to over take her.

When I wake up, she thought, I'll be back in Boston.

* * *

><p>"<em>She seems pretty normal." A first voice, honey sweet and teasing.<em>

"_Seems being the key word. The craziest ones are always the nicer looking ones." A second, cold and business like. _

"_I like my toys to be pretty," came a third voice. It was clearly the leader. _

_Rashel remained still, trying to keep her breathing deep and even as the mattress sagged. The third one leaned over Rashel and pressed their noses together. _

"_Welcome to Wayward, little girl." She whispered, then flicked Rashel on the nose. _

* * *

><p>Rashel awoke with a start to the heavy <em>beep beep beep<em>ing of an invisible alarm. Her room was abandoned, and she looked to the clock on the wall to find it was 10am.

She swore and stumbled from the bed onto the floor, falling uncomfortably onto the woodwork and glancing around in confusion because _surely wasn't my suitcase there last night? _

After quickly dressing into plain clothes that had been laid at the foot of her bed, Rashel tried to creep downstairs, only to find absolutely no one around. Actually, since she arrived she hadn't seen a single soul besides Bonaparte.

She crept through the manor; into the large dining room with closely crammed, long tables that could hold many people, then onwards into what could possibly be a lounge. In there she saw one girl, but the girl barely looked her way, instead making quick work on the incredibly large windows. Rashel carried on back out into _another _hall and was just about to try her luck at another door when from behind her came a voice.

"You're late by four hours and 37 minutes, Ms Jordan," Bonaparte said tightly, "care to explain?"

Rashel spun around, shock and guilt lacing her features, "I'm sorry."

"Sorry _what?_"

"Sorry, Miss."

Miss sounded wrong on her tongue, but she didn't have time to get used to it as a mop and bucket were thrust at her, slopping soapy, cold water over her bare feet.

"Stairs. I want them spotless."

"Do I not get breakfast?"

"Shut up and don't talk back. Stairs."

Rashel scowled, but said nothing more.

She could tell she was going to _love _it there.

**This is short. **


	2. Chapter 2

**Sorry if my English is a bit off, it's my second language. My first is Klingon. **

**Thank you for the reviews and favourites. :3 **

**Listening to: Music to be patriotic to. England Keep My Bones – Frank Turner.**

**Warnings: I don't beta anything. Aforementioned confusing English. A habit of assuming everyone is obsessed with History like I am. Pointless violence. OC. Segregation based upon ones nationality ((although played for laughs)) **

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><p><em>I keep having dreams, <em>

_Of pioneers and pirate ships and Bob Dylan, _

_Of people wrapped up tight in the things that'll kill them,_

_Of being trapped in a lift plunging straight to the bottom,_

_Of opens seas and ways of life we've forgotten, _

_I keep having dreams. _

* * *

><p>Rashel bumped her knee into the hard step and swore, hitting it again with her bruising knee in retaliation. Her hand then slipped on the soapy mess she'd made and her elbow found itself jammed into the banister. It was possibly the worst sequence of events to happen to her in the last 24 hours, with the exception obviously being institutionalized.<p>

"Rough first day?" Someone remarked from above her, and Rashel looked up to see a tall, slightly messy looking girl smiling down at her, "It's always like this. Here," she leant down and pulled Rashel's elbow out, "let me help you."

You'd think that coming from such a large family Rashel would have a sense of trust in everything. But instead she had the feeling of mistrust and un involvement that comes from being the second youngest in her family. And therefore, she didn't trust a single word coming out of the strangers mouth.

Plus, her voice sounded creepily familiar. There was a cool stern authority behind her careful, gentle lilt.

Her fringe was pinned back to reveal a pale strip of forehead and her cheeks were flushed slightly, giving her the air of rushed-off-her-feet.

There was a pregnant pause that wasn't met by a witty closing line, but instead by the girl stretching out one calloused hand.

"I'm Keller," she smiled and settled back onto the step two up from Rashel, retracting her hand when it became obvious that Rashel wasn't going to take it, "I'd ask 'what're you in for?' but we don't ask that around here. And I'd recommend you didn't."

Rashel didn't like the way she spoke, but laughed stiffly alongside her.

"I'm Rashel," Rashel picked up the bucket and shifted it carefully down a few steps and Keller followed after her.

"Why're you on stairs duty anyway?"

"I was late downstairs in the morning."

Keller grimaced, trailing her finger in the soapy water. Rashel silently and slowly continued to scrub at the bottom portion of the staircase. All in all there were 217 steps, not including the second floor. Dusk was heavily approached by the time Rashel had finished.

She checked the face of the large grandfather clock situated by the heavily bolted entrance door and found it to be 4:50-something.

"4:30 to 5:55 is free time," Keller answered the question Rashel hadn't asked, "Unless if you're on kitchen or stairs. Then it's dinner right after."

Rashel didn't bother to correct her on 'Unless if you're on' and simply left her to her incorrect English. But upon seeing the look on Rashel's face and assuming it was due to the word _dinner, _Keller smiled her fake-warm smile and said, "You'll be fine. You have me, do you not?"

Rashel nodded, and Keller added, "Besides, it'll get easier; the first week is always the hardest."

* * *

><p><strong>Two months and twenty-three days later. <strong>

Rashel gazed down at the empty plate in front of herself longingly. She was really hungry, _painfully hungry. _Her nails were cracked and mud had set up shop in the spaces underneath where she couldn't wash. She'd been on garden duty as of late, not that she minded because at least it wasn't bathroom or – god forbid – _stairs. _

The home was far from the worst place she'd ever been in, although it was still incredibly... weird. As would soon become apparent and had already become so.

When she first arrived, Keller had been her only friend. But she was quickly joined by a girl called Marianne and another by the name of Thea. They were lovely, but Marianne spent too long arguing with another girl for Rashel to talk to her much. So far she had kept her head down and gone about her business.

She still didn't understand Bonaparte's third rule; she hadn't seen a single boy since she'd been thrown inside the asylum and-

"Rashel!" Someone was clicking her fingers in Rashel's face. Oh, it was Keller; she still hadn't dropped her light and happy facade. Rashel knew that when she thought that Rashel was asleep she slipped back into the monochrome voice she'd whispered in Rashel's voice on the first night.

"Hm?"

"_Ms Jordan – Bluecoats."_

A book was slammed down on the table in front of Rashel, landing on Keller's hand and causing a sharp crack, "It's time for tea, dears."

Did I mention that Bonaparte is completely _insane _and sorted all of the priso- inmat- girls into what roll she perceived they would play during various different wars?

Well, she did.

Therefore, as that week it was the American Revolutionary War, Rashel and her American counterparts had been labelled as Whigs and been made to sit separated from the rest of the girls.

Well screw Bonaparte, Rashel thought, _we _won.

So yes, she was incredibly insane, painfully insane, worryingly insane.

Rashel stood, walking slowly through the rows of conversion and smiling girls, happy to be able to eat after a long day of work.

Rashel, however, wasn't happy to eat, she didn't want to eat, she didn't like the food – it tasted disgusting and burnt, stumping and manufactured. Her stomach wasn't used to it's consistency and even after being at the Home for over two months she still wasn't used to it and every night she would find herself retching up her meal in the cold bathroom buckets, tears streaking down her cheeks as Marianne held her hair back and muttered to her friend.

Her friend that no one else could see.

"Miss, I'm not hungry." She said, stopping.

"Excuse me?"

"I apologize, M'am, but I'm not hungry."

The book slammed into the side of Rashel's face, sending her stumbling into a table of supposed Redcoats who only momentarily looked up.

"I told you – Miss or Mistress at _all times._ And this is of the finest English cuisine, how could you possibly object?"

At the words 'finest English cuisine' Marianne chuckled, but it went otherwise ignored.

"I'm sorry I just-"

"Can your fine stomach not handle it, Ms Jordan? This isn't the courts, dear."

Rashel turned her eyes back down to the spotless but still somehow grubby tiles and said almost inaudibly, "Your food just sucks."

The book slammed into her face once more, snapping it to the side and causing her head to throb, but she refused to move, or cry, to allow Bonaparte the satisfaction. There was a moment of silence before she finally said, "Very well. Off to bed with you."

She walked stiffly from the room, stumbling down the hallway with tears in her eyes and then-

_Fuck, it's really not my day is it, _she thought as she was pushed into the wall and then to the floor in a tumble. Her head connected with the floor and there was a painfully sounding crack as everything went dark.

For about a second she was free.

Then everything restarted, her eyes opened, double visioned and blurry to someone standing over her and asking, "Are you okay?"

Her vision regained to find herself met by a concerned-but-reserved looking boy, hesitantly curious but he still stood far away from her, next to the other wall.

"Y-yeah, I'm f-f-." She groaned, "I don't know. Head hurts."

"Did Bonaparte hit you?"

_He called her Bonaparte. _

"Mhm." She allowed him to help her up, "Miss packs a hit."

He winced, looking at the gathering book inflicted bruises on the side of her face. He touched one of them, gently cupping her face in his hand, before he said, "'s gonna leave a mark."

Rashel chuckled, "I suppose."

She was slightly warmed by his appearance, him being the first boy she'd seen since her arrival.

"I must go," he said, "Sir will have my head."

"Sir?"

"Brezhnev."

_Is everyone in this bloody place named after Dictators? _

There was a clatter, and someone yelled, "JOHN I SWEAR TO GOD TEN FUCKING SECONDS."

"Goodbye, stranger." He said, running off down the hall in the direction of the yelling.

He was long gone and the hall was silent by the time Rashel whispered, "I'm Rashel."

She lay in bed that night as Marianne educated her friend on how the French were far superior to her supposedly backwards country and Keller whispered in her bone chilling voice to, reciting poetry and sonnets, all she could remember.

Rashel lay in bed and thought of the boy, and how his eyes were the most lively and beautiful shade of grey she had ever seen.

* * *

><p>Name: Rashel Jordan.<p>

Age and Sex: 17, Female.

Married, single or widowed: single.

Of any family: Unknown.

Occupation: Hm.

Habit of life: What could you mean?

Religious standing point: Church of England I assume, what else?

Brought by: A certain Madam Hambridge of York.

Form of Insanity: Melancholia, Insomnia, Hysteria.

Cause if said insanity: Unknown.

Genetic, hereditary: Suspected.

If Suicidal: Seemingly not.

If dangerous to other: Very much so, although she has not yet shown it.

If destructive to property: _yes. _

State of bodily health: Ill.

Marks of violence: Cuts, bruises; self inflicted. Suspected signs of rape/otherwise out of wedlock.

Further Notes: She's _odd. _

* * *

><p>"<strong>The American Revolutionary War started as a War between Britain and the original 13 colonies and ended in a <strong>_**full scale war between the major European superpowers fought internationally."**_

**HOW. Just. HOW. **

**This story is a bit like /what. **


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